No Rest for the Wicked
by towalkinyourlight
Summary: Clarke Griffin is the picture of a devoted detective, and has been hunting down a ring of art thieves- named The Delinquents- since she began her time as a cop. However, when she is approached with a startling offer from the leader of the very criminals she has been desperate to capture, she finds that maybe the law isn't as black and white as she'd always thought.
1. Chapter 1

"Detective Griffin." A gruff voice said, and Clarke jerked awake, head shooting up from where she'd been lying on her desk. She hadn't even realized she'd fallen asleep. A memo stuck to her cheek as she looked around with wild eyes, trying to find who'd spoken to her.

"What?" She responded quickly, her eyes finally landing on the person who'd said her name. Her boss, Thelonious Jaha, was standing over her with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her with disapproval. She immediately straightened her back and scraped the paper off her face.

"Yes, Captain Jaha." She cleared her throat, crossing her hands in front of her.

"Have you had any luck with those addresses yet?" He questioned, eyeing the mess of papers scattered across her desk. Her shoulders slouched at the inquisition, and she brought her hand up to her forehead.

"No, none of them fit the specs yet." She sighed, staring at the mess in front of her, suddenly realizing how exhausted she was. "I haven't made it through all of them, but I'm going to keep looking until I find a lead-"

"Clarke." She heard him say, and she stopped talking, looking up at him. He hardly ever called her by her first name. His gaze had softened slightly, a tinge of sympathy crossing his features. "You've been here for forty-eight straight hours. Go home, shower, eat, get some sleep." He said insistently, but Clarke shook her head.

"Sir, with all due respect, the longer we wait, the harder it'll be to catch them, and with Finn and the rest of the team out on foot, I'm the only one-" She tried to rationalize with him, but her boss was having none of it. He held up a hand to cut her off, and she stopped talking.

"Detective, you're not of any use to the case if you can't stay awake for longer than two minutes. We have no reason to believe this case is going anywhere for the time being; go take care of yourself, and I'll see you tomorrow." Jaha pressed. Clarke tried to argue, but he cut her off with another wave of his hand and strode to his office.

With a sigh of resignation, Clarke turned back to her cluttered desk to find her car keys. The stacks of papers loomed ominously on her desk. As much as she hated to admit it, the Captain was probably right; she'd been pouring over leads for almost two days, and still she'd come up with nothing. When she'd caught wind of rumors floating around that the Delinquents were planning another heist, she'd immediately jumped on the case and put her all into finding their base of operations. However, after hours upon hours of fruitless searching, she'd come up empty-handed. After all that work, she was exhausted and more than a little defeated.

She jumped as she suddenly felt someone's hand on her shoulder, realizing that she'd drifted off again, this time sitting straight up. Blinking rapidly, she looked up to see a bemused Finn standing over her.

Rolling her eyes, she went back to her papers, straightening them into a neat stack and avoiding his gaze.

"Please tell me you went home last night like I told you to." He said, and she felt the hand withdraw from her shoulder, knowing he'd crossed his arms in irritation. He was her partner, and as much as he annoyed her, she knew better than anyone what he did when he was irritated. She finished stacking her papers and put them in a neat pile on the corner of her desk, continuing not to look at him, and turned her attention to her still-missing keys.

"Well, Detective Collins, you do not dictate what I do with my life so, no, I did not." She deadpanned, opening her desk drawers and searching for the familiar sight of her bundle of keys, complete with the tacky keychain Lexa had gotten her for Christmas several years ago. "There are more important things at stake here than the leading detective on the toughest case this department has seen in five years getting her beauty sleep."

"You really shouldn't skip out on the beauty sleep, Detective Griffin, you kind of need it." He replied, amused, and she shot him a glare. He was wearing a smirk, but still looked a little concerned.

"You're quite the comedian, Finn." She grumbled, finally spotting her keys in the trashcan she kept by her desk. "What are you doing back here anyways? I thought you went home."

"I left my book at my desk, so I came back to get it." Finn answered, sitting lightly on the edge of her desk as she gathered up the rest of her personal affects and shoved them in her purse. "Are you finally going home?"

"Yeah, the Captain ordered me." She pouted, standing up and stretching. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken a break, and the stretch in her muscles brought relief she hadn't realized she needed.

"Good!" Finn said, fiddling with the completed Rubik's Cube she left on her desk. It was one of their routines: he was supremely irritated that she could solve the cube when he couldn't, so he would mess it up in the mornings, and she would have it corrected by evening. She supposed he was making up for the lost time he missed while she was pouring over leads. Irritably, she grabbed the toy out of his hand and set it back on her desk.

"Not good, Finn. I need to crack this case before they… before they…" Clarke tried to get out, but a huge yawn grew from her throat, cutting off her speech.

"Yeah, you're definitely going home, right now." He insisted, linking his arm through hers before she'd even finished yawning. She tried to protest, but she was too tired and he was too strong, so he just dragged her through the building next to him.

"Also, you're definitely not driving yourself home." He added, tugging the car keys out of her hands before she could react.

"Hey, those are mine!" She exclaimed, trying to snatch them back, but he just held them over his head as he continued to drag her through the nearly empty precinct.

"You don't need to drive me, Finn, I'm fine." She tried to explain but was cut off by another large yawn. Finn snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Right. Hey, Maya." Finn said suddenly, and Clarke noticed their resident forensic analyst had entered the room while they'd been arguing. She looked up when Finn said her name.

"Do you think Clarke should drive herself home?" He questioned. Maya looked at Clarke for approximately a tenth of a second before she looked back down at her paperwork.

"No, someone else should drive her." She muttered, immediately engrossed in the lab results she was holding. Clarke let out a huff of irritation, and Maya let out a little sigh in response.

"Clarke, you look exhausted. There's no way you can safely drive yourself home." She mumbled, not even looking up from her papers. Finn looked at Clarke pointedly, then grabbed her arm again and dragged her through the rest of the building to the front door.

"C'mon Finn." She groaned, but he just shook his head.

"Absolutely not. Either I drive you home, or I call Wells to come pick you up." He threatened, and Clarke's eyes widened in horror at the thought of calling her roommate. They had very conflicting schedules, and the last time they'd talked, he was under the assumption she was going home every night. Her be furious if he found out that she'd spent three whole days at the precinct without coming home to sleep.

"We are not calling Wells." She said forcefully. "Just give me my keys." She pleaded, but Finn just rolled his eyes.

"No arguing, Clarke." He told her. She didn't listen; instead she complained and argued the whole walk to her car, and even as he was pushing her into the passenger seat. However, as soon as her head hit the headrest, she was out like a light.

Clarke liked to think of herself as hardworking, a word which many others would consider an apt description, but in all reality, she was just stubborn. She'd been chasing this case almost since she entered the police force, and the longer it remained unsolved, the more agitated it made her. Every time she heard a whisper, a rumor of the Delinquents movements, she jumped back into the overflowing file she kept in the bottom of her desk drawer. They were the most infamous art thieves and smugglers in a three-hundred-mile radius, and regardless of the fact that they stole incredibly valuable pieces of Roman and Greek art—art that included incredibly heavy statues and highly guarded paintings—they had never once been caught. Sure, Clarke and her fellow detectives had gathered small pieces of evidence: a picture here, a name there. Eventually, they'd even worked out a basic sketch of the group, with seemingly numerous individuals all working together under one leader to accomplish their heists. But no one had ever, in five years, found any solid evidence to indicate the thieves' identities or their movements or even where they were stashing the art. It was infuriating to constantly have the group slip through her fingers, no matter how elaborate the heist. They were stubborn, just like Clarke; biding their time, planning out their heists, taking their time.

When Clarke had first become a detective, her and her partner Lexa had caught a huge break: they knew what piece of art the Delinquents had set their eyes on. The whole precinct had planned for weeks, setting up such an elaborate trap for the criminals that even the visiting FBI agents assigned to the case had been impressed. The night of the heist came and- nothing. Not a single move was made to steal the painting, and the same thing happened the next night, and the next night, and the next. Eventually, the rest of the force had deemed the tip a false alarm, and had abandoned the set-up. However, Lexa wasn't convinced, and she and Clarke had staked the place out the very next night, against the Captain's orders. Just as the pair had suspected, the group struck that night, moving with such fluidity and power to accomplish their task that even Clarke couldn't help but feel a little bit of admiration. Lexa, however, felt nothing but rage at the criminals, and charged in after the group while Clarke called back-up. After a lengthy chase through the art gallery they were robbing, Lexa thought she caught a glimpse of a Delinquents and chased after them, gun drawn and ready to fire. Unfortunately, it wasn't a Delinquent: it was the back-up SWAT team Clarke had called for, and they shot immediately at the sound of gunfire. Lexa had died on route to the hospital, Clarke sobbing next to her the whole way, while the criminals had gotten away with their painting. Ever since the incident, Clarke was hell-bent on avenging her partner's death. Logically, she knew it wasn't any of the Delinquents faults; as far as she knew, none of them were even armed during their robberies. But if they hadn't planned the robbery, and Lexa hadn't been so determined to catch them, she would've still been alive.

After the incident, the group went inactive for about a year, but Clarke never let the case go. When she heard rumors of the Delinquents coming back to the surface about six months after Lexa's death, she dragged her new partner through all the motions to find them, but had come up empty-handed. They continued to pop up from time to time, always getting away, and though the pain surrounding the case lessened over time, it was always nagging in the back of Clarke's mind. When her new partner was paralyzed during a shoot-out with a gang war, she almost gave up the case completely, but she met her new partner and suddenly she was pursuing it with a new frenzy. Finn Collins, charming and passionate, had lost his girlfriend to the group; she'd broken off their relationship and joined the criminals for no plausible reason. Clarke and Finn worked well together, and even tried at a relationship for a couple of weeks, but when she found him cheating on her, they'd gone back to being just partners, bound together by their zeal to catch the criminals that had stolen their loved ones away.

Clarke suddenly felt the car jerk to a stop beneath her, and she woke with a jolt, disoriented. Turning her head, she caught Finn's lingering gaze on her; he was watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and Clarke immediately oriented herself. Finn drove me home. I'm in front of my apartment. She laid there for a moment, seeing if he would shift his gaze, but he didn't, so Clarke just rolled her eyes and reached for the seat buckle. He jolted to awareness, as if coming out of a trance, a blush creeping to his cheeks.

"Clarke, I'm…" He tried to speak, but Clarke just held up her hand to cut him off.

"Don't. You already know what I'm gonna say, so let's just skip this." She shouldered her purse and climbed out of the car, Finn following suit. He had the good grace to look embarrassed, even if the longing was still there.

"How are you gonna get home?" She asked him when she reached the sidewalk leading up to her apartment door. "Didn't you take your car to the station?"

"I'll just take the bus, there's a stop right around the corner. My car's in the shop, so I just took the bus to the precinct." He said, his hand slung in his pockets. Clarke rolled her eyes, shivering slightly in the chilly night air.

"It's back in the shop again?" She exclaimed, crossing her arms over her chest. "You really need to get a new car, Finn. Your repairs are costing more than the car is worth at this point." Finn laughed.

"Hey, don't disrespect a classic; my dad drove that car in high school!" He responded in amusement.

"That is exactly my point." Clarke sighed, smiling at him.

"It's a relic, Clarke. I can't exactly abandon it." Finn explained in mock exasperation. Clarke just sighed.

"Obviously this discussion is going nowhere, again. Goodnight, Finn." She chuckled, heading up the walk toward her complex. "Thanks for driving me home."

"Anything for you." She heard him say, and she could hear the faint smile in his voice. "Goodnight, Clarke."

As much as she hated to admit it, it really was in her best interests to have gone home when she did; she was so tired that she slipped and fell getting out of shower and almost cut her head open on the bathroom floor. Luckily, she'd caught herself in enough time to prevent serious damage, but she'd hit her shoulder on something on the way down, and she was definitely going to have a bruise in the morning. She was surprised the noise hadn't woken up Wells. As it was, she barely managed to stumble into an oversized t-shirt and collapse onto her unmade bed before sleep overtook her completely.

Unfortunately, it seemed her night wouldn't last very long. She woke late the next morning to the obnoxious ringing of her phone. Cursing who she assumed was her mother for calling her at such a god-forsaken hour, she stabbed in her phone's passcode and answered the call.

"What." She growled, her voice gravelly from only recently waking up.

"Good morning sunshine." She heard Finn's voice say through the receiver, though it was surprisingly stoic for such a cheery sentiment. Clarke let out a groan; if Finn was calling her it meant that there was a problem at work. "Get ready and get dressed; I'll be at your place in twenty minutes."

"Why." She growled, rolling over on her bed to flop onto her back.

"There's been another heist, Clarke." He said solemnly, and it took a few moments for the words to register in Clarke's still-muddled brain, and she shot straight up into a sitting position, suddenly awake.

"You mean-" She started to say, but Finn cut her off, impatient.

"Yes, I mean the Delinquents. They need us at the station. I'm coming to pick you up; I've got bagels and coffee from The Ark." Clarke let out a sigh of gratitude; she didn't like being woken by demanding phone calls in the morning, but coffee from her favorite café certainly helped. "Twenty minutes, Clarke. You better be ready." Finn reiterated, then hung up.

Clarke scrambled around her apartment to gather her things, suddenly full of energy, and was pulling on shoes when she heard Finn's horn honk outside. Dashing outside and into his car-he must've picked it up that morning-she pulled her hair into some semblance of decency while Finn peeled out of the parking lot and sped onto the road.

"So what's happening?" She questioned him through the bobby pins in her mouth as they flew down the roads to the precinct. His hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly, his body tense.

"I don't know all the details; Captain Jaha called me about an hour ago and told me there'd been another heist and that we needed to get to the station as soon as possible." His jaw was tight; he was grinding his teeth together in frustration. Anger welled up in Clarke.

"That's all he said?" She questioned.

"That's it." He responded. Clarke leaned back against the seat, munching on the bagel Finn had so graciously thrown at her when she'd climbed into the passenger seat, relishing in the fantasy that, with this case, she'd finally bust the Delinquents and throw them all in jail.

They tore into the precinct parking lot several minutes later, and dashed inside to see the Captain and several other detectives standing in front of an evidence board. The two of them started throwing out questions at the exact same time, and Captain Jaha held up a hand to stop them.

"Here's what we know," Jaha started, cutting right to the chase. "From the reports we've received, The Delinquents robbed Mt. Weather last night during a guard shift change." Clarke's eyes widened; Mt. Weather was a privately-owned, highly-secure art gallery in the nice end of town. As an artist herself, she frequented the place quite often, so she had seen firsthand how hard it would be to rob the place. Sensing her onslaught of questions, the Captain kept talking before she could respond.

"They weren't caught by any of the security cameras, and the guards didn't see them enter or leave. Nobody was hurt, and as far anybody can tell, no property was destroyed. No biological evidence has been gathered from the scene, so we've still got nothing on that road. They got away with two paintings and a highly valuable statue. As always, they left their signature mark at the scene." Jaha finished, but the way his words were left hanging in the air, Clarke knew there was something else.

"And?" She prompted irritably. "If there's something else, you need to tell me." He looked hesitantly at the ground, then turned around to pull a picture off the evidence board.

"They left a note this time." He said quietly, handing her the picture. Clarke's blood boiled as she read it, the taunting words scrawled in loopy, painted handwriting on the dais where the statue had been standing.

 _Our Regards to Detective Griffin_

Shoving the note into Finn's hand for him to read, she turned to glare at the evidence board, taking in the scant evidence, the pitiful theories they'd come up with, the sloppy stars and moon they painted at every crime scene, the few names and faces they'd gathered in their desperate attempts to catch the criminals. The Delinquents had been the bane of her existence since she'd started her time as a detective. They'd cost so many people unnecessary pain and trouble. She had to find them. She had to bring them to justice. As she stared at the evidence board, Clarke curled her hands into fists, determination growing in her with every breath.

Clarke Griffin was going to catch Bellamy Blake and his merry band of criminals if it was the last thing she did.


	2. Chapter 2

"C'mon Clarke, cheer up!" Clarke faintly heard Maya say before she drained a glass of whatever ridiculous fruity concoction she'd ordered. The bar they were at was crowded and noisy, and Clarke was not nearly drunk enough to 'cheer up' yet, so she'd settled for being grumpy and unapproachable. They'd spent the day visiting the crime scene, talking to the witnesses, going over the chain of events, scouring the evidence, and, as usual, had come up with nothing. It was long and exhausting, and by the time evening had rolled around, they'd had enough. They were all miserable at their continued failure, so Finn had proposed a night out on the town, something Clarke had only reluctantly agreed to after he'd had recruited Maya to convince her. It really wasn't fair; Maya was one of the sweetest, kindest, most genuine people Clarke had ever met. You couldn't say no to her for anything. So, even though it was the last place she wanted to be after the day she'd had, Clarke had ended up at this dingy bar—she was pretty sure the sign outside read 'The Dropship'—with the rest of the precinct, trying to drown out her frustration with copious amounts of alcohol. Finn had disappeared almost immediately to hit on some redhead who was making eyes at him, the rest of the precinct had dispersed once they got their drinks from the bar, and though Maya had stuck with Clarke so she wasn't by herself, Clarke could tell she was getting bored waiting at the bar.

"Hey Maya?" Clarke said, looking over at her. She was staring wistfully at the mass of people on the dance floor, jumping to some overplayed pop song that they were all just drunk enough to enjoy.

"Yeah?" She turned to Clarke with wide eyes, as if watching the crowd made her guilty of something. Clarke let out a slight laugh.

"Go dance." She sighed, gesturing to the dance floor. Maya's gaze softened.

"Are you sure?" She questioned, already setting her empty glass on the bar. Clarke smiled.

"Yes, Maya, go enjoy yourself." Maya let out a little squeal and all but ran out into the crowd. Clarke watched her wistfully for a moment, enjoying how excited the dark-haired girl was, until she remembered that she was only at this overcrowded bar because she couldn't solve her case. Scowling, she turned back to the counter, marveling at the smudges all over its surface. Normally, she'd never be caught dead in a place like this, but Finn had insisted; he'd seen a sign outside the place on their drive home the night before that advertised a special one-free-drink-for-every-customer weekend, and when he'd gotten a flyer shoved under his door that morning advertising the same thing, he considered it fate.

Almost as if on cue, the bartender slid a drink over to her. He was young and cute, with dark hair and dark, slanting eyes. Personally, Clarke thought he looked a little young to be a bartender, but she always got told she looked a little young to be a detective, so she wasn't one to judge.

"Excuse me, I already had my free drink. I didn't order this." She called politely after him. He turned back to her for a moment, in between grabbing glasses from underneath the counter.

"I know, someone sent it for you." He smiled. Clarke furrowed her brows, glancing up and down the bar. No one was even looking in her direction.

"Who was it?" She asked warily. The bartender took a step closer—she could read his nametag now, it said Monty in silver engraving—and smiled slyly at her.

"You know, they didn't want me to say." He smiled. Clarke widened her eyes slightly in surprise. "Enjoy your drink!" The bartender called back to her, turning his attention to the customer who'd come up to the bar next to her. Clarke glanced around the smoky room, trying to find anyone who might've sent her the drink, but no one was even paying her the slightest attention. She glanced incredulously down at the glass; nothing looked out of the ordinary, and after all, Clarke Griffin was not a girl to turn down a free drink. Taking a deep breath, she picked it up and downed the whole thing in one shot, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. The man sitting next to her whistled.

"Wow, rough day?" He questioned as the bartender slid him his drink. Clarke just nodded, blinking away her suddenly watery eyes.

"You have no idea." She grumbled. He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink before speaking again.

"I like your shirt." He said, and Clarke glanced down. She'd hurried home to change after leaving the precinct, and had thrown on the first t-shirt she could find. It was plain and black, and had some pun about Leonardo da Vinci on it; she was already feeling a little too tipsy to remember for sure.

"Thanks." She muttered, waving at the young bartender for another drink. "I'm impressed you get it; it flies over most people's heads at the bar." He chuckled, and Clarke couldn't help but smile. He had a nice laugh.

"Well, I'm more of a sculpture man myself, but I do have a deep appreciation for all the great painters." She heard him laugh again, and turned to look at him, only to be slightly taken aback. Clarke could suddenly see why he had a preference for sculptures, considering he looked like one himself. He was dressed in a short-sleeved blue Henley and a pair of black, form fitting jeans, hastily tucked over a pair of black vans, all of which allowed Clarke to see the abundance of muscle that moved underneath the fabric. His dark hair was curled like he was some kind of Greek god, his tan skin glowing slightly with a sheen of sweat in the stuffy bar. A constellation of freckles was scattered across his nose and cheekbones and onto the rest of his skin, and his dark eyes were almost black in the dim light. A dorky plastic crown was planted firmly on top of his head, and even though it was silly, Clarke thought it made him look even more attractive, somehow regal.

"What's with the crown?" She questioned, her voice slightly slurred, all her attention drawn to the shimmery gold plastic perched on his head. Immediately, brow furrowed, he reached a hand up to his hair, and his eyes widened as he quickly pulled the crown off. He set it on the bar, then cleared his throat awkwardly and leaned forward on his hands.

"Oh, it's nothing." He mumbled. With the courage of the alcohol coursing through her veins, she leaned forward and grabbed it, plopping it on her own messy hair. He quirked an eyebrow at her, amused.

"Don't like being royalty?" She questioned innocently, taking a sip of the drink that had appeared in front of her. He smiled.

"I've been told I'm more of white knight than a king." He laughed. "But you don't seem to mind being the princess." Clarke felt a flush creep into her cheeks, which she was hoping he didn't notice.

"You gonna answer my question? Do you just wear crowns to bars all the time?" She chuckled, and he sent her an amused grin.

"Nah, it's my sister's birthday." He said, turning slightly and gesturing to a booth over by the wall. A dark-haired girl was sitting with a large muscular man, their heads tucked together, laughing over something. His arm was wrapped tightly around her, and even from a distance, Clarke could see the sharp tattoos that covered his dark skin. She smiled when their heads dipped together and she caught a glimpse of the plastic crowns adorning both of their heads.

"That's sweet of you to celebrate with her." Clarke informed him. He snorted in amusement.

"It's not sweet; it's self-preservation. When she wants something, she gets it. Octavia Blake does not take no for an answer." Laughing to himself about something Clarke assumed was a memory, she smiled at him for a second longer before something clicked in her alcohol muddled brain.

"Wait, Blake." She said, and an odd look flashed over his face. "I know someone named Blake."

"Really?" He questioned, a sly smile slipping onto his face as he took a sip of his drink. "Who is it? Maybe we're related." Clarke frowned, her heart suddenly racing. Should she say something? Blake was a fairly common surname, after all.

"Bellamy. Bellamy Blake." She finally blurted out, studying his reaction closely. To her surprise, a wide grin split his face.

"The one and the only." He smiled, holding his arms out in a grand gesture. Clarke froze for a moment, staring at him, her eyes slowly widening as she registered the comment. She tried to speak, but she kept stuttering. He- Bellamy- chuckled, turning to take another sip of his drink.

"Don't look so surprised, Detective." Bellamy said, amused. Clarke suddenly felt like she couldn't breathe, and the glass in her hand slipped to the counter with a thump, the liquid sloshing over the sides.

"Are you serious?" She questioned, her hands closing into fists. The alcohol was making her sluggish, and her brain seemed to be moving half as fast as it should. Bellamy Blake was a criminal. What was he doing in a bar?

"Of course, Princess." He grinned, and Clarke remembered the crown on her head; she hastily pulled it off. "I'm surprised it took you so long to figure it out."

"It's not like I knew what you looked like!" She hissed. His eyebrows flew up, surprised.

"You didn't know what I looked like?" He questioned. "We must be better than I thought." Clarke shook her head, and her mind slowly caught up. Bellamy Blake. Criminal. Committed a crime this morning. Standing in front of you.

"What am I doing, I need to take you to the station." She reached down to grab her handcuffs, only to realize she didn't have them on her. Instead she reached for her phone, but his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His fingers were surprisingly soft and warm against her skin.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He was still smiling, but his voice was deadly serious.

"Are you threatening me?" She growled threateningly, though it sounded significantly less threatening considering how slurred her words were. Those drinks had really done a number on her.

"No, I'm not threatening you." The smile had disappeared, all pretense of friendliness gone from his face. He turned towards the crowd. "But I'd sure hate for something to happen to your friends."

Clarke stiffened at his words, then whipped her head around to look for her colleagues. Maya was dancing, quite terribly, in the middle of the dance floor with a scrawny, floppy haired kid who was probably a worse dancer than she was. They were both smiling and laughing, but as Clarke watched, he caught Bellamy's eyes and sent a very obvious wink in their direction. Clarke's horror grew as she realized what was happening; in the corner, the redhead wrapped up in Finn's arms blew a kiss in Bellamy's direction. The booth where Captain Jaha was sitting with several other detectives was directly adjoining the one where Bellamy's sister and the other man were sitting, but they weren't cuddling now; instead, they were staring at Bellamy with stone cold faces, their hands underneath the table. Flirting, dancing, standing nearby: all around the room, her colleagues were shadowed by someone who seemed to be waiting on some kind of cue from Bellamy. Clarke turned very slowly back to Bellamy, where he was stoically watching her take in the situation. The music was still loud and overwhelming, but it seemed to drift to the background as she took in a deep breath, fighting the panic and rage that was working its way through the haze.

"What kind of game are you playing here?" She growled, each word slow and careful. She hadn't seen any weapons on Bellamy's crew, but she couldn't take the risk.

"I needed to talk to you." He said plainly. Clarke gaped.

"About what?" She cried, exasperated.

"I'll cut straight to the chase, Griffin. I know you're practically killing yourself to arrest all of us, but there's more at play here than you realize." A worn file, stuffed full with paper, slid across the counter to her stop in front of her, and Clarke looked up to see the bartender staring at her solemnly. Of course he was part of it too.

"What is this supposed to be?" She snapped.

"It's everything you need to know about what's going on." He continued. He still looked deadly serious, but now there was more than a little worry in his voice. "As much as it pains me to admit it, Princess, we need your help. There's something... big, happening right now, and there's not much a group of criminals can do about it. We need the law on our side."

"And what the hell makes you think I'm going to help you criminals with anything?" She hissed, venom dripping from each word. She'd hoped he'd at least be hurt, but he just rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Just read the file, Detective. I think you'll find that you're a little more willing to help us after you do." He set his glass down on the counter, then started to walk away. "When you decide to help us, you know where to find me." He slipped into the crowd, and Clarke stood where she was, frozen in fury. How dare he have the audacity to ask her for help? The man whose actions had gotten Lexa killed? A criminal who'd caused so many people so many problems? Who'd caused herself sleepless nights and so much pain?

Suddenly her mind jumped to alertness, and she realized she'd just let a wanted criminal walk out of her sight. Cursing, she looked around the room, trying to spot him, only to find everyone else who'd been with Bellamy was gone, too. She whipped around to follow him, but ended up knocking the file off the bar in the process. Hurriedly gathering the papers up and shoving them back in the folder, she didn't pay attention to any of them until she saw a photo: Lexa's stony face, unaware her picture was being taken, climbing into her car. Clarke stiffened and leaned down to pick up the picture. Fingers shaking, she turned it over, to read a scrawled note on the back: _Det. Lexa Woods, deceased, paid hit._

She stood suddenly, stumbling backwards into a barstool. Throwing the file onto the countertop, she tore through the rest of the pages; there were at least a dozen more pictures, all with 'paid hit' written on the back of them. Clarke's mind was racing; she knew exactly what the pictures were insinuating, but she could hardly find it in herself to trust a group of criminals. However, as she stared at the pictures, at Lexa's face, she had a sinking feeling that Bellamy was right: she would be helping them after all.


End file.
